


Cold, Dark Nights

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-13
Updated: 2010-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo cuts his finger on a contaminated knife and develops an infection just before Bree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“So, Mr. Frodo’s going to cook for us tonight,” Sam said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “I’m darn glad I got that bird now.”

“Your stone-throwing skills surpass any other hobbit of the Shire,” Frodo laughed.

“Bravo!” Pippin said. “If Frodo cooks half as well as Bilbo, we’ll not starve on this journey.”

“I don’t think I’m as good as Sam,” Frodo said, blushing. “But seeing how we’re only about two days from Bree, I hope it’s one of our last outdoor meals for awhile.”

“And I’m sure it will be a good one,” Merry said. “Don’t you remember when Frodo cooked for my birthday a few years ago? Very tasty. Bilbo taught him well.”

“What are we having?” Pippin asked.

“Mushrooms,” Frodo answered. “And that bird you shot, Sam.”

Frodo cut up the mushrooms before tackling the bird. He winced at the blood that smeared all over the knife. Nasty business. He hated this part. Bilbo had not taught him this part—Sam had. He looked up at Sam with a smile, and at that moment, he sliced into his hand. A seering pain spread over his hand.

He cried out, dropping the knife.

“Did you cut yourself, Mr. Frodo?” Sam cried.

“Oh, I’m so foolish!” Frodo said. “I can’t believe I did that!”

He held his left hand over the cut. Blood oozed between his fingers.

“Here, let me have a look.” Sam took Frodo’s hand in his. “We need to wash it off right away.”

“There’re no streams nearby. We’ll just need to cover it,” Frodo said. “Hand me the bandages, please, Pip.”

“No.” Sam shook his head firmly. “The knife was dirty. Pippin, Frodo’s right. There are no streams nearby, but dribble some of our canteen water over his hand if you will. That ought to do it.”

Sam held Frodo’s bleeding hand while Pippin poured water over it.

“There now, I’m fine,” Frodo said. “I didn’t mean to make such a fuss! Let’s just cover it so it doesn’t bleed all over our dinner!”

Sam got out a small bandage and wrapped it around Frodo’s hand. The blood soaked through the first layer. Sam continued to wrap layers over the cut until the blood stopped soaking through.

“There now, is that better?”

Frodo smiled.

“Much better. Thank you, Sam.”

The hobbits slept that night under shelter of pine trees. Their stomachs were content from Frodo’s delicious meal. Only Frodo had difficulty sleeping. His cut throbbed like it had been stung by thousands of wasps. Every time he moved, the pain flared, jolting him awake. The cut must have gone much deeper than he thought. They were almost to Bree. There, if necessary, they could find some herbs that could ease the pain. He sighed, trying to be brave about the pain. If a simple cut was his worst problem on the quest, he should consider himself very lucky.

  
Frodo woke to a gray and drizzly morning. His sleep had been so poor that he could scarcely believe that it was time to move on. His muscles were so fatigued. They had about a day's march before they reached Bree, according to the map. Frodo hoped that by taking a short cut that he had discovered that they had left the Ringwraiths behind. He shuddered in memory of their near miss at Bucklebury Ferry. He had actually felt the icy breath of the Ringwraith chasing him.

Frodo winced. His hand burned and throbbed. The first stream they came to, he planned to unwrap the bandage and wash it off. He accidentally bumped it against his knee as he fumbled for his pack. A flare of hideous agony ripped through his hand. He cried out, biting his lip.

"Frodo?" Pippin asked. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Frodo took several deep breaths. "This confounded cut!"

Merry looked at him in concern.

"Does it still hurt?"

"A little. Well at least I don't need my hands to walk." He smiled bravely. His head felt light. An aching pervaded his limbs. The idea of walking all day in the rain made him feel weary and frustrated. How he longed for his feather bed in Bag End! There Sam could have made him some tea and he could have spent the day sleeping.

All morning, as they trekked through the mostly barren countryside at the edge of the Shire, he was quiet. His friends tried to engage him in conversation, but all Frodo could concentrate on was putting one foot in front of the other. His muscles ached, and his eyes felt hot. At lunch, he looked down on the dried fruit and bread and cheese, but none of it was appealing. He pushed his food aside.

"Not hungry, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked quietly. "You should eat up. You're looking a little peaked."

"Sam, how far are we to Bree? Are we nearly there?"

Nobody answered. He looked up in time to catch Merry and Pippin exchange a worried look.

"You're the one with the map, cousin," Merry said. "We've been following your route."

Frodo looked up in confusion. A chill rippled over his body and he pulled his cloak to him. His hand flared in new agony.

"Map?"

"Frodo, are you all right?" Pippin asked. "You're awfully flushed."

Sam worriedly put his hand over Frodo's brow.

"He's burning up. Oh, dear. I don't know what we should do out here in the middle of nowhere. He needs a nice soft bed and a warm fire."

"I thought he said we'd be at Bree by nightfall," Merry said.

"Why don't you take out the map and look at it?" Sam said in irritation. "Pippin, you build a fire. Mr. Frodo, don't you worry about anything. We're just going to rest here a bit, get some hot tea into you."

"No, Sam," Frodo said, shaking his head. "I'm all right. Please don't fuss over me. I do remember now. We're going the right way. If we keep walking the rest of the afternoon we should be in Bree by nightfall. I'll be all right. I would rather tough it out now and get to rest in a real bed tonight. And don't forget the cloaked riders."

All four of the hobbits shuddered at the memory of the shrieking Ringwraiths that had pursued them.

Sam shook his head with a tsking sound in his teeth.

"You're not walking anywhere right now. We're going to hide under the shelter of those trees over there and you're going to rest until this fever burns off."

Frodo didn't say anything about his throbbing hand. It seemed secondary to the aching fever that had pervaded his body. His eyes felt hot and blurry. He gratefully leaned back into the makeshift bed Sam had prepared for him.

"What are we going to do?" Pippin asked quietly. He looked about worriedly. He was obviously thinking about the Ringwraiths. He had wanted to get to Bree as soon as possible to meet Gandalf. Frodo couldn't blame him. He bitterly cursed his luck at getting sick out in the wild. He felt terrible that his young friends were being subjected to the fear and misery of their journey.

By evening, a drenching rain had begun. Sam tried to cover Frodo the best he could with his cloak, but soon all four of them were soaked and shivering and unable to keep the fire going.

"We must have shelter," Sam said, watching in dismay as Frodo shook uncontrollably inside his cloak. Frodo looked at them through blurred eyes. He tried to stop shaking, but he had no control over his muscles.

"Right," Merry said. "Maybe Pip and I should scout the area, see if there's any farms nearby."

"We're no longer in the Shire," Pippin said. "Do hobbits live in this area? I saw a house just off the path about a half hour before we stopped."

Merry shook his head. "Mostly Big Folk in this area, but I'm sure they're just as hospitable as hobbit folk. They surely wouldn't turn down a request to give a sick hobbit shelter from the rain. Are you sure you saw a house?"

Pippin nodded.

"THen maybe it's better if we all go," Merry said. "Sam and I can help carry cousin Frodo. Thank goodness he's never had a regular hobbit appetite! I believe he's the lightest one out of all of us."

Sam and Merry heaved a soaking Frodo off the groan. Frodo's hand snagged against his pack. He yelled in agony.

"Frodo, it's all right," Merry said. "We're taking you to a warm house."

"What's the matter with him?" Pippin asked Sam worriedly, thinking Frodo couldn't hear. "He got sick so quickly!"

"Shush!" Sam said in irritation.

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately not to weep in pain. His hand felt as if hammers were being pounded into it. Despite the chill, his face and eyes burned.

The trek to the house took over an hour. By the time the hobbits reached the front steps, they were exhausted--Merry and Sam from carrying Frodo, and Pippin from carrying the majority of their luggage. The door was huge and imposing. None of them had ever met any of the Big Folk, unless they counted Mr. Gandalf, which they really didn't since he was a wizard. Pippin banged on the door. Frodo groaned. He felt too weak and sick to question whether this was a good idea. After all, he had responsibility for the Ring. He had no way of knowing whether the Ringwraiths had already targeted this area and frightened the people into being on the lookout for four hobbits.

Finally the door flew open. A gruff man with a beard and a sword answered the door. His fierce face softened into confusion when he saw the four hobbits.

"Hobbits?" he questioned, throwing his sword aside. "I thought you were--" he shuddered. "Never mind. Some of our neighbors have had some frightening visitors earlier today. Old Mr. Olbet down the road was white and shaking. He wouldn't tell me anything other than to say that he thought they were from...the East."

Frodo's heart sank. The Nine had indeed targeted the area. By taking shelter here, he was putting this man and his family in danger. He had no choice. He was too sick to walk, to do anything about the situation.

"I'm very sorry to bother you," Merry said. "We were traveling to Bree from the Shire, just over the river. Our friend here has taken ill. We wonder if we could--or at least he could rest inside under your shelter. It's pouring rain outside and--"

The man waved them in.

"Come in! Come on! All of you. I have a fire going. I'm Sonson, by the way. My wife's visiting relations in Bree right now with some of our youngsters, but my oldest son is here. Gavon!"

A lanky young man in his teens came into the living area. He stopped in surprise.

  
"Hobbits? Don't see many of you folk outside of Bree."

Sonson nodded. "They're from the Shire, and one of them is ill. Here." The man took Frodo from his friends. He looked down into his flushed face.

"Fever?" he asked the hobbits. Sam nodded. He was clearly mistrustful of the man, yet mostly he was relieved that he had allowed them to get out of the cold rain.

"Well," Sonson said. "Does he have any dry clothes? All of you hobbits ought to get out of your wet clothes. Gavon, put some tea on."

The young man left the room to put the kettle on the fire.

"Frodo's other clothes are wet, too," Pippin said. "I'm afraid I dropped the pack on the way here."

"Then it won't do us any good to uncloth him," the man said. He wrapped a heavy towel around Frodo. Frodo's injured hand snagged against a fold in the towel, and he bucked against the large man, crying out in involuntary pain. This time it felt as if jagged, burning knives were plunging into it.

The man looked down at the hobbit's agonized face in concern. He turned to Sam.

"Doesn't it seem to you that there's more wrong with him than a fever? Your friend seems in a lot of pain. I'm no healer, and I know nothing of hobbits, despite being right by your border and all. I'm just not sure what to do."

"I don't know," Sam said helplessly. "Frodo, dear, what hurts?"

But Frodo did not hear him. He had lost consciousness.

Frodo woke next in a makeshift bed by the fire. His skin felt on fire and he wanted someone to put out the fire, but he couldn't talk. His throat burned. He was having difficulty getting in enough breath, though he didn't understand why. His lungs weren't injured--his hand was. He was still wrapped in the heavy towel like a cocoon. The room was dark. Everyone was asleep. He tried to shift in his sleep, but his hand erupted in new pain.

"Help," he gasped. "Sam!"

Sam was awake and by his side in an instant. "Frodo, what is it?"

Frodo had tears in his eyes. "It's my hand, Sam. I think it's infected."

Sam gasped and his face turned several shades paler. He clenched his fists.

"I'm so ashamed. I'm the worst blockhead. I didn't even think of it. I plum forgot all about your cut hand, Mr. Frodo. You didn't complain, but then you never do. Let's see to it. If anything happens to you on account of this, I'll never forgive myself!"

"It's not your fault," Frodo said, reluctantly sticking out his hand. He cringed as Sam unwrapped the bandaging. Tears streamed freely down his face. He tried not to cry out since everyone else was asleep, all the hobbits in the front room and the owners of the cottage in their back rooms. Reluctant gasps escaped Frodo's lips. Sam's own eyes watered in response to Frodo's tears.

Sam examined the cut under the light of the fireplace. Frodo's entire hand was swollen. The cut was jagged. Pink flesh swelled around its edge. As Sam stared at the cut, the only sound was Frodo's noticeable wheezing.

  
Sam looked at Frodo in teary concern.

"You don't sound good at all. I don't like this being in the middle of nowhere. I'm thinking we might persuade our kind host to go or to send his son to Bree for a healer. Maybe even Mr. Gandalf's there waiting. He'd come right away if he knew you were ill."

"No," Frodo said quietly. "We can't trouble these good people who have been kind enough to take us in. Our very presence is a risk to their lives if the...if the riders come."

He did not know what he would do if the Ringwraiths attacked them. He had no will to fight or run. He was too miserable to do anything other than lie on the floor in a miserable ball.

"Mr. Frodo, we really need to clean this cut. I will go boil some water."

Frodo leaned back against his makeshift bed. The chills had returned, racking his body with violent tremors. He couldn't remember ever being so ill. Even when he was young and Bilbo had nursed him back from a dangerously high fever, he had not felt this miserable and breathless.

Heavy steps came down the hallway.

"Is everything all right?" Sonson asked. Frodo was soothed by his voice. He had grown up with the perception that the Big People were harsh and violent, to be feared. This man's hands were gentle as he felt Frodo's brow.

Sam came back out with a kettle full of water to put on the fire. "Actually, sir, Mr. Frodo's very sick. He's not breathing right and his hand's infected."

"Aw," the man said. "I knew something else was amiss besides the fever. I'll put some rags in cool water. Like as not, this fellow's going to come down with pneumonia, being ill in the rain and sleeping in these wet clothes."

"Pneumonia," Sam choked. "But won't that kill him? We need a healer. Don't you have anyone in these parts?"

The man looked at him with kind eyes. "No, the nearest is in Bree. Perhaps you could send your two younger friends into town. I cannot spare my son or I would send him. But you're right. It may be dangerous for Frodo to go much longer without proper care."

All at once, a sound of horse hooves thundered in the distance, coming closer and closer. Frodo clutched Sam's hand, his face breaking into terrified sweat.

The riders. They were on their way. The hooves thundered, punctuated by horrific screeches.

"What is that?" Sonson whispered. His eyes were wide and frightened. Frodo felt a surge of deep shame that he he had brought terror and possibly death upon this kind man who had taken them in out of the rain. Frodo wished he had been able to convince his friends to carry on to Bree.

"They're coming," Frodo whispered, his lips paling. He could barely get in enough breath.

"We must hide," Sam said. "They can't find us here. Merry, Pippin! Wake up!"

"Do you know something about all this?" Sonson asked. He reached for his sword. "Never mind, there's not time for talk. Go into our cellar. It will be cold and damp. I'm sorry there's no light."

"What's going on?" Pippin asked. He listened to the thundering hooves approaching. He clutched Merry.

"Let's go," Merry said. "Do as the man says. Come, Sam, help me lift Frodo."

Frodo groaned as Sam and Merry lifted him again and carried him to the wooden door that led down to the cellar. They had only just shut the cellar door behind them when a loud rapping at the door caused an icy chill to go up Frodo's spine.

Frodo cringed against Sam's arms. He was shaking uncontrollably from fever, cold, and fear. He heard shouting upstairs hissing that caused his skin to crawl. He had an inexplicable urge to put on the Ring. His hand crept to where the Ring lay in his vest pocket.

"No!" Sam grabbed his wrist.

Frodo gazed at him through blurry eyes. He could not control it. He was going to put it on. "Please help me, Sam. Help me, I can't stop it. Just hold my hands and don't let go."

Sam took both of his wrists, careful not to bump Frodo's wounded hand. He was stronger than Frodo, especially now in his weakened state, and he had no difficulty pinning his wrists down. The hobbits clung together as they heard Sonson yell in hoarse fear at the intruders. Frodo was moved by how brave the man was. He could have turned the hobbits in. He could have led them right down to the basement. The idea made his chest tighten. He struggled to get in a full breath.

"Be gone! Stay away from my house!" Sonson cried from upstairs.

The minutes passed with agonizing slowness. It grew deadly silent. Frodo wondered if the Ringwraiths had killed Sonson and his son. The idea left him cold. They should never have come. They should have tried to make it to Bree. He would never forgive himself if by his presence he had caused the deaths of Sonson and his son. However, he no longer had an urge to put on the Ring. He had come so close.

Finally a heavy thudding at the cellar door caused the hobbits to jump and clutch each other harder.

"They're gone!" Sonson said harshly.

Frodo sagged against Sam, his muscles trembling. He gasped for breath. He felt that he had only half of his lung capacity.

"Here, Mr. Frodo. Merry, help me lift him again."

"I am all right," Frodo gasped. "I can walk up the stairs if you help me."

Frodo leaned on Merry and Sam and they made their way up the damp stairs. Once in the room, they found a very angry Sonson and his blurry-eyed son. Sonson glared down at the hobbits.

"The servants of the Enemy were seeking out hobbits from the Shire. Do you know anything about it?"

Frodo looked down. He could not stand on his own. The rain had continued and now thudded against the roof. It would be difficult to hear the thundering of horse hooves should the riders choose to return.

"We're very sorry," he finally said. "We should have said something."

"It's just that Frodo was so ill," Merry said. "We were desperate for shelter--"

"And you have endangered myself and my family. The very least you could have done was to warn us that you were being sought by the Enemy."

"Would you have allowed us in?" Sam demanded. "I feel right bad about this, Mr. Sonson, but Mr. Frodo was so ill and I didn't think he would survive out in the cold rain."

"I feel terrible," Frodo said. "We will leave at once."

"Yes you will." Sonson shuttled them to the door. "I want you out of here now."

"Father," Gavon said. "The Riders have already come and gone. You can't send these hobbits back out into the rain. Not with this one being so ill. That's murder as far as I can see it."

"Please be merciful," Merry pleaded. "It's cold and raining and Frodo's breathing isn't right. If you push us out, you'll be responsible for his death."

"Merry," Frodo said, shaking his head. "No. It's all right. He's right."

Sonson shook his head. "I'm sorry, Gavon. And I wish I could help you hobbits, but as head of the household I have to make difficult choices. Frodo, there are some good healers in Bree. Just make straight there. You'll reach there by daylight. Ask at the gate. I just can't risk the lives of my family. I'm sorry."

He gently pushed them out the door and shut and latched his door. Frodo knew he was justified in making the choice that he had. But the idea of having to do anything other than lie in one place made him feel weepy. He was fatigued, burning up, in pain, and he could not get in enough breath. He trembled violently, thinking about possibly meeting up with the Riders in a dark place where they had no place to hide.

"Let us move on then," he said, determined to be brave. The sooner they reached Bree, the better. "You don't have to carry me. Just let me lean on you."

The rain drenched them in minutes. The bandage that Sam had replaced on Frodo's hand was soggy and falling apart. Frodo's ears ached from the cold wind that blew the hood of his cloak off.

  
They walked forever. The trail never seemed to change. They never seemed to see any sign of other life. They saw a few distant farmhouses, but they did not dare knock on any other doors. Frodo's entire body shook, and his feet stumbled. His hand felt like it was covered in wasps who constantly stung him. He could not walk any farther. Every step was agony.

"Please, Sam, put me down. I can't--can't make it."

"We're nearly there, Mr. Frodo. We've got to just push through to Bree. I don't want you spending any longer than necessary in the rain."

"It hurts...to...breathe," Frodo said. He knew he was more sick than he had ever been in his life. He knew it was a very real possibility that he could die. None of his friends were experts.

"We're about two miles from Bree," Merry said. "I think I see lights around those hills."

Frodo closed his eyes. It seemed too tiresome, the idea of walking all that distance, getting through the gate, then trying to find a healer. He wished he would lose consciousness. Then the aching in his chest would end and he wouldn't feel the chilling rain.

Frodo slipped into a feverish doze. He was in Bag End again, but all the windows were open, allowing the rain and wind to sweep into the room and soak him. He lay in bed with no covers on and he was so cold. Bilbo had brought him a statue from Rivendell, ornately carved in the likeness of Galadriel, the lady of Lothlorien. For some reason, Bilbo insisted on placing it on Frodo's chest. The statue was cold and heavy.

I can't...I can't breathe...please move it!

"Frodo," Merry shook him. "Frodo, we're at the gate. What was the name you were going to use?"

Frodo's eyes snapped open and he looked at Merry, confused.

"Name?"

"You said Gandalf gave you a name to use on your travels."

"Oh, yes," Frodo mumbled, as if to himself. "Mr. Underhill."

They knocked on the wooden gate. A large man looked down at them in blatant mistrust.

"What do you want?"

"Please," Merry said. "We're hobbits from the Shire. Our friend is very ill and needs a healer. Can you help us?"

"Hobbits from the Shire?" the man said in scorn. "What are you hobbits doing so far from home, I'd like to know? There's some strange folks around, asking about a hobbit by the name of Baggins. Does that ring a bell to any of you?"

Frodo's heart banged against his chest, but he managed to shake his head no.

"I am Mr. Brandybuck," Merry said. "Now will you please let us through? My friend is sick, possibly with pneumonia and he's been in the cold rain all night."

  
The expression of the man at the gate hardened. "Listen, you little rats." Frodo and his friends recoiled at the sudden evil tone in the man's voice. "I don't much like hobbits and I don't like the tone you're taking with me, Mr. Brandybuck. If you ratlings from the Shire have caused us trouble from your dealings with the elves or whatnot and stirring up the Enemy, I'll be the first to sign up to invade your little country and do some serious damage. And now if you're not more upfront with me right now, me and my friends are going to start by doing some serious damage to you."

For the first time, Frodo noticed that the gatekeeper was not alone. Two other men were inside the little shack by the gate. They were watching with the cruel interest of a group of bullies.

Merry's tone changed to pleading as the gatekeeper's friends stepped out of the shack and the three men surrounded the hobbits. Frodo leaned heavily against Sam. He could do nothing to help his friends, and it shamed him. He was so physically miserable--the muscle aches, the burning, the fatigue, the neverending throbbing in his hand, the cold heavy weight on his chest--that he only had a vague sense of responsibility toward the Ring. The miserable, selfish part of himself wanted to buy his and his friends' freedom from these ruffians by offering the Ring to them. He shuddered at that thought. No. He would not let it get to that point.

"Please," Merry said. "This isn't necessary. We just want to get into Bree so that we can help our friend. As you can see he's sick. We don't intend to cause any trouble. Please just let us pass."

The gatekeeper laughed. He was clearly enjoying this opportunity to bully. Frodo watched in a half-conscious daze. It seemed unreal--part of a nightmare. Gandalf would never have sent them somewhere this hostile. Surely not all the men of Bree were like this. He had heard that the hobbits and men of Bree got along well.

With no warning, the gatekeeper yanked Merry by the arm and shoved him against the wall of the shack. Frodo cried out in outrage, but his legs were too weak to move. Sam hugged Frodo so that he did not fall to the muddy ground. Pippin dropped all the packs he had been carrying and ran at the gatekeeper, attacking him with small fists and ineffectual kicks. Frodo gasped for breath, amazed and terrified by Pippin's bravery. Once again, he cursed himself for his weakness, that he could not jump to his friend's aid. Sam looked as though he wanted nothing more than to join in the fight, but he could not let Frodo go.

"No," Frodo gasped as one of the gatekeeper's friends yanked Pippin back by his hair and threw him to the ground, delivering to his side a vicious kick. "Go on, Sam, don't worry about me! Help them!"

"Okay, you little rats," the gatekeeper said, hitting Merry across the face. "Here's the deal. If you don't want me turning you into the Enemy, you'll each pay me everything you've got. Understand?"

"Please don't do this," Sam yelled out. "Mr. Frodo's sick. He needs help. His hand's injured."

One of the gatekeeper's friends stood in front of Frodo. He wrenched Frodo's chin up so that he could look at his face. Frodo had no strength to resist. He watched the man through blurring eyes.

"Awww," the man sarcastically said. "It's a sick hobbit. What should we do about it?"

Laughing cruelly, the man grabbed Frodo's injured hand and squeezed as hard as he could before wrenching him out of Sam's embrace. He threw him into the muddy ground. Frodo was too weak to even cry out.

"How's that, huh? How does that feel? I'll make you squeak, all right!"

Frodo's fingers curled on the ground. He writhed in agony. He blacked out for a moment. The cold mud and pain in his hand brought him back all too soon.

Through fading consciousness, he heard one of the men, possibly the gatekeeper yell, "Heads up! A couple of rangers are coming this way. Let's get out of here!"

The ruffians scattered and fled, leaving the hobbits alone in the mud but still not inside the village of Bree.

Rangers. Frodo shuddered in new fear. Everyone in the Shire had heard of the mysterious and dangerous men called rangers. Most hobbits lived in terror of encountering on the borders of the Shire.

"Oh, no, oh, no," Sam gasped, falling on his knees beside Frodo. "Mr. Frodo, are you all right?"

"Sam," he gasped. "We must hide. Are Merry and Pippin okay?"

"Yes," Pippin said. "Though I feel like I've been broken in two. Let me help you carry Frodo, Sam. We'll hide under that brush, behind that clump of trees."

Frodo was barely conscious, but he felt himself lifted again and then set down in cold mud. He shivered uncontrollably. He was never going to feel warm again. His clothes were muddy and soaked. The hobbits huddled together, doing what hobbits excelled at--keeping silent. Soon they heard voices.

"So what happened to the gatekeeper?" a soft voice in an unfamiliar accent said.

"Harry? He quit after the Nine passed through last week. A couple of ruffians have been acting as gatekeeper. Everytime we catch sight of them, they flee. We'll nail them eventually, though I have more pressing matters on my mind. It looked like there was a struggle going on here, but there's nobody here now. I could have sworn I saw hobbits."

"Are you not searching for a hobbit from the Shire, Estel?"

"Yes I am. He is long overdue."

"There's nothing around here. Let us walk the perimeter of the village."

The footsteps faded, and Frodo released a shallow breath of relief. This was worse than he had imagined. Not only was the Enemy after him, but he was possibly the target of a ranger search, though why, he had no idea. Perhaps word had gone out to the rangers about the Ring. Maybe they wanted it as well.

"Come on," Pippin said. "We're going to climb over the gate. The ruffians won't be back for awhile, and neither will the rangers. We've got to get Frodo out of the cold rain."

"All right," Merry said. His nose was bleeding from the blow to his face. "But how do you propose Frodo should climb?"

"I will do it," Frodo said. "If somebody helps push me from behind."

Pippin scrambled up the gate with nimble hands and feet. He easily dropped to the other side. Next Frodo came, followed closely behind by Sam, who used one hand to help Frodo so that he wouldn't need to use his injured hand. Frodo didn't want to jump over the other side. The idea of his aching, feverish body taking such a blow made him dizzy. Sam helped him over the top. Frodo gasped in new pain. Tears filled his eyes. He couldn't do it. Sam looked down at Pippin in despair.

"Frodo, drop down. I'll catch you," Pippin said. Frodo obeyed, trusting that sturdy arms would catch him. They did. Sam jumped down after him. Frodo lay helpless in Pippin's arms as they watched Merry climb down.

The flickering light of a torch suddenly lit up their faces. Frodo gasped and craned his neck, trying to see the owners of the torches.

"What's going on here?" A rough voice demanded. Frodo couldn't hide a desperate whimper. He couldn't believe his poor luck. Two men, different from the ruffians that had bullied them earlier and different from the rangers, stood in front of them. Frodo recognized their costumes. They were men of law. "Gatebreaking?"

Frodo's breath had grown more labored, and he couldn't seem to recover from the extra effort he had made in climbing the gate. A haze of black dots made his vision dim.

"Excuse me," Merry said. "We just need to get into Bree. Our friend is very ill. He needs a healer. As you can see, there's nobody here to let us in."

"Gatebreaking is a serious offense. Are you folks from the Shire?"

"Yes," Merry said. "We're very sorry we had to climb your gate. But please help us. We need a healer right away. Our friend has an infected hand and we think he might have pneumonia and he's been out in the cold rain all night."

"I hate to do this to you Shire folk, but we have very strict orders to bring anyone into our law headquarters who is caught gatebreaking. We've had some very dangerous folk sneaking into our borders."

Merry's eyes teared with tired frustration. "Do we look like dangerous folk to you, good sirs?"

"It would do you more good to keep silence," the man said.

Sam said, "At least let Mr. Frodo here be seen by a healer. He's going to die if someone doesn't look at him! He's had it rough enough the last few days."

The man looked like he it bothered him somewhat to be so cold. Whatever had been going on in Bree it had scared the hospitality out of the Bree folk.

"Will you follow us willingly or will it be by force?" the man asked.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Whenever Frodo thought he could not possibly go on without collapse, he was forced to endure more. And still he had not lost consciousness. Without his dear friends, he would have long ago collapsed and willed himself to die in the cold mud. He could not walk on his own. He felt guilty that his friends had to struggle to carry him and the extra baggage, but his breathing had become so labored that any physical effort on his part caused a black cloud to float in front of his vision. If only he could lose consciousness and be done with it! The hobbits made their way through the soggy, muddy streets, desperately trying to keep pace with the men who were leading them to the headquarters. At least in jail they would be out of the rain.

Inside the headquarters cottage, Frodo felt his first blast of warmth since they had left Sonson's farmhouse. A fire blazed in the front room. Frodo yearned to throw himself on one of the large chairs in front of the fire. His numb muslces shook uncontrollably. Sam tried to tighten Frodo's cloak around him, though the soaked cloth did little good to keep him warm.

A man at a desk stood in surprise when the two men and four hobbits came in. "What is this?"

"Good evening, Doren. Caught these four gatebreaking."

"They're a sight," Doren chuckled. He looked down at the soaked hobbits. "Where are you folks from?"

"Please help us," Pippin said, his voice cracking from fatigue and fear. "We're from the Shire. We're to meet someone in the Prancing Pony, but see? Our friend is desperately ill. Please don't lock us up. At least not him."

For the first time Doren noticed that Frodo could not stand on his own. He walked around his desk and put a large, dry hand on Frodo's pale brow.

"He's burning up," he said. Frodo detected soft concern in his voice.

The man who had rounded them up at the gate grunted and shook his head. "It's certainly up to you how soft you are on these hobbits, but just remember if you bend your policy too many times, nobody's going to take it seriously. And we've too much trouble in Bree as it is."

Doren ignored him and instead asked the hobbits, "Would you care to tell me what happened? And let's allow your sick friend to sit down at least." Sam and Merry helped Frodo into a chair. Frodo still couldn't control his shaking. Sam again tried to arrange his soaking cloak more firmly around his body.

Merry took a deep breath and told Doren about encountering the ruffians at the gate and how they had climbed over the gate to get into Bree to find a healer.

Doren nodded thoughtfully. "Your situation sounds reasonable and under normal circumstances we'd let this go. But this is our situation. We are trying to discourage ruffians and worse creatures from coming into our village and so we cannot let any breach of the law slide. We will have to put you into jail, though it will be only for a short time. Now, do you hobbits have dry clothes?"

Pippin shook his head miserably. "Our packs got wet."

"We can send someone to ask around to the local hobbits for extra clothing. Your sick friend definitely needs dry clothes. It is not very warm in our cells. We will send for a healer to assess his health."

Frodo no longer cared where he rested as long as he would not have to move anymore. His muscles ached so badly that every movement was agony.

"Please, sir," Sam said. "Might you have fresh bandaging here? His hand looks right bad."

Doren examined Frodo's hand. The wound was swollen and hot to the touch. Red streaks ran up his forearm. Frodo groaned when he saw it. He had heard horror stories about infections that had killed when the red streaks reached the heart. Or even if it didn't kill him, if it wasn't treated soon, he might lose his arm. The idea terrified him. He breathed in rapid panic, causing a terrible rattling sound in his chest. Doren's face grew grave with concern.

"The cloak and jacket are not doing him good soaked." The man gently took off Frodo's cloak and brown jacket. He hung them near the fire. He turned to the other hobbits.

"I will allow Frodo to stay up here by the fire overnight. I don't think he'll be going anywhere, at any rate. The rest of you hobbits will need to go downstairs with these men, though."

"No!" Sam cried, clutching Frodo's arm. "I can't leave Mr. Frodo alone and sick and all!"

"I'm sorry," Doren said. "I'm doing what I can do to help him. The other alternative is to have him go with you down to the jail. I think you'll agree it's better for him by the fire."

"It's all right, Sam," Frodo said in a croaked voice. "I'll be all right." He was too weak to protest much of anything. He wanted the pain to stop. If only he could just stop breathing. He longed to be safe in his bed in Bag End, tucked into his warm bed, with plumped goose feather pillows under his head.

"Come now," Pippin said to Sam, trying to sound cheerful. "Imagine what we'll be able to tell the folks back home--that we were in a real jail in Bree."

Frodo watched through a haze as his friends were taken away. His heart sank. Without them, he felt lonely and vulnerable and had less motivation to breathe. He hoped they would be all right. Surely Doren knew enough not to put them with real criminals. Frodo did not know whether Bree had separate jails for men and hobbits. He prayed that the worst thing that could happen to them was that they would feel chilled overnight.

"Will they...are they all right?" he asked Doren as the man scooted his chair closer to the fire. Doren put a dry blanket over him.

"Nothing will happen to them down there."

Frodo closed his eyes. The shaking racked his body. He tried to stop, but he had no control over his muscles. He overheard Doren speaking softly to one of his men.

"Find a healer and fast. Tell him we have a very sick hobbit with an infection. After you send the healer this way, go ask around the local hobbits at the Prancing Pony for dry clothing for four. I tell you, these Shire folk came completely unprepared. No rain gear, packs that let in the rain, not a decent first aid kit. This hobbit wouldn't have gotten so sick if they'd just been prepared...I'm really sorry I have to be so harsh on them, but if I'm not firm about that gate, then I get it from above. All the same, I don't want this one dying on me here, so make it fast!"

The man grunted in response and left the cottage.

Frodo tried to maintain eye contact with Doren, but his eyelids were heavy. Every breath was a momentous effort for which he had to mentally prepare. It would just be easier if he could just stop breathing. The other hobbits could take the ring, and Gandalf would know what to do with it. Breathing was unbearable but not breathing was impossible. He coughed, and ripping agony shuddered through his chest. He clutched his chest and bent over, writhing and gasping.

"Easy," Doren said, catching the hobbit's shoulders. Doren did not seem to be a bad sort. He was helping them the best he could within his power. Frodo realized for the first time that he had been ignorant of men in the Shire. He had thought of them all as either overly kind but condescending, as an adult is to a child, or bullies like the ruffians at the gate.

After what felt like hours, the door opened. Frodo flinched at the sight of the grim, rugged man with a cloak drawn tightly over his face. Doren looked up in mistrust.

"What are you doing here, Strider? I've told you we don't need you suspcious folk in our village. We've enough trouble lately."

"I've been told you have a sick hobbit from the Shire."

"What is it to you? I sent for a healer, not a troublemaker from the wild."

"I am a healer." The grim man's voice was low and dangerous, sending chills through Frodo's heart. "And say no more because you're frightening the hobbit. Look at his rapid breath."

"There is something wrong with his lungs."

The ranger knelt beside Frodo and put a large, rough hand on Frodo's chest. Frodo tried to shrink away from him. A ranger! The rangers had been looking for hobbits from the Shire! He looked wildly to Doren for help, but Doren had slunk back to his desk. Even he was afraid of the ranger.

"No.." Frodo gasped. "Please..."

"Do not fear me, Frodo Baggins," the ranger whispered. "I am here to help you in more ways than one."

Frodo gasped for breath in his panic. Each jagged breath sent new stabbing pain through his lungs. How did the ranger know his name? He had not given anyone his name outside the Shire.

"Now I need you to relax, Frodo. Frodo!" Strider gripped Frodo by both of his arms and tried to make eye contact with the panicked hobbit. "Frodo, please. If you breathe like that you will do more harm to yourself."

"No...don't...I don't have anything for you," Frodo said, trying to struggle out of Strider's grip.

Strider looked to Doren. "He needs dry clothing."

"I know. I have sent one of my men to try to get some from the local hobbits. It looks like you're upsetting him more than helping him, Ranger."

"Frodo!" Strider shook Frodo. He scowled, his gray eyes darkening with desperation. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "I am a friend of Gandalf's. You must trust me. You must relax or I will not be able to help you."

Frodo sagged against the chair, his eyes fluttering shut. He was too weak to fight anymore. If the ranger wanted the Ring or wished to harm him, there was nothing he could do about it.

 

Aragorn held Frodo's limp hand in his. Sitting so close to the unconscious hobbit, he felt keenly aware of his small size. Not any bigger than a lad of nine summers or so. That Sauron's Ring had been in the Shire, in the hands of such a creature, seemed amazing to him. He could not have thought of a better hiding place if he had been in charge of finding one. If not for the creature Gollum, the Enemy may never have heard of the Shire. Aragorn knew something of hobbits, and he guessed why Gandalf had allowed the Ring to remain in the Shire for so long. The spirits of hobbits were strong and they were resilient to illness--though Frodo looked more fragile than the average hobbit--willowy with delicate features and huge eyes that dominated his pale, clammy face. The eyes were closed right now.

This hobbit was going to need that resilience. This was a grave situation. Pneumonia was tricky even in the best of circumstances, and Frodo had been soaked for hours. The infection in his hand was spreading. His illness was far gone. Aragorn watched the shallow, labored rise and fall of his chest.

Aragorn gently removed Frodo's damp vest and shirt and hung them beside the fire. He wrapped the dry blanket Doren had given him tightly around the limp hobbit. His skin was hot.

"Was he traveling alone?" Aragorn asked Doren.

"No." Doren shook his head as if he were reluctant to reveal too much. "He's got three friends with him. There was some trouble at the gate and I had to put them in jail overnight."

Aragorn stared at him in disbelief at the idea of Frodo and his friends being treated like common criminals. At least the man had been smart enough not to force Frodo down to the cold, damp cell.

"It's because of folk like you," Doren continued with some resentment. "You suspicious folk come in and out and rile up evil strangers and we have to make laws. The hobbits were gatebreaking. I know they meant no harm, but our rules have to be strict now."

Aragorn shook his head. "This is ridiculous. You know they are not ruffians and they are not a threat to your village. Let them go, Doren. These are respectable hobbits from the Shire. This sick one is a dear nephew of a hobbit well respected among the elves of Rivendell."

Doren flushed in anger. "As far as I know, the rangers do not own the village and they do not give orders."

Aragorn walked to Doren in a threatening manner. He dropped his voice low, fixing his keen gray eyes on the man behind the desk. Doren flinched, obviously trying not to flee. Aragorn was glad that Frodo was unconscious. He was frightened and weak enough. Aragorn didn't want him witnessing a frightening face off between two men.

"I have asked you kindly to allow these hobbits to go free. If I have to ask again, you will be answering at sword point. Do I make myself clear? I will give you an hour to sort out whatever you need to sort out in order to make this happen."

Doren stood, trying to hide his fear. "All right. I will let them out of the cell to be with their friend, but they cannot leave this cottage."

"If we cannot leave this cottage, at least you will provide the proper elements in order to save Frodo's life. I need a pan to boil herbs, extra blankets, towels--"

"How do you know that hobbit's name?" Doren interrupted suspiciously. He pointed to a pile of heavy pans beside the fire. "I like this less and less."

"I know his uncle well," Aragorn said, looking for a source of water. "And it is not wise to be suspicious without censor."

Doren took the pan from him. "The water pump's outside. I will get it."

Frodo's eyes opened. Aragorn paused while the hobbit's blue eyes took in the room. The glaze of fear returned as memory came back to him. His breathing made an ominous rattling sound in his chest. His eyes fixed on Aragorn.

"Where am I?" he whispered.

"You are in the village of Bree. You are very ill. I am a friend of Gandalf's and am here to help you."

Frodo seemed to suddenly remember that he had been frightened by the ranger before he had lost consciousness. His breathing grew more rapid and he shrank away. "You're a ranger," he whispered, barely able to get in enough breath to talk. "You wanted hobbits from the Shire."

"Yes, Frodo, I was looking for you." Aragorn could sense Frodo's growing panic. He tried to keep his voice low and soothing, but it did not work. Frodo clenched the blanket in fear, but he aggravated the agony in his infected hand. He cried out, shuddering in pain. Aragorn cupped his hands over Frodo's cheeks in order to hold him still. His heart sank. He remembered how worried Bilbo had been upon his parting from Rivendell and how he had begged Aragorn to find and protect his dearest nephew. Frodo was very ill. Aragorn was not sure what he could do to help him with the limited means that he had.

"Frodo means the world to me, Dunedain," Bilbo had told him. "Nothing means more to me than that lad. If anything happens to him because of my old Ring, I will never forgive myself."

And Gandalf. He should have been in Bree waiting for the hobbits, but he was not. Gandalf had not expected Frodo and his hobbit friends to make it to Rivendell on the main road. Since he was not here, Aragorn could do nothing but worry that something had befallen the wizard.

"Easy," Aragorn said, placing a gentle hand on Frodo's arm. "Enough talking. You must save your breath. Just know that I am a friend and that I will do everything in my power to help you."

"I'm worried about my friends," Frodo said. "They're in jail here."

"I know. I'm working on getting them free."

"Who are you?" Frodo asked.

"I said that's enough talk," Aragorn said in an irritable voice, hiding a smile. Gandalf had mentioned how curious hobbits were. He bent his head toward Frodo's chest, intending to listen carefully to the sound of his breathing, when a sharp pain ripped through his ear. He cried out in surprise. The hobbit had grabbed his ear and twisted. He saw Frodo's eyes, bright with suspicion and triumph. Despite the pain, he was glad to see such life still in Frodo.

"What are you doing?" Frodo demanded.

Aragorn grasped Frodo's wrist and gently twisted, just hard enough to make Frodo release his ear. Doren chuckled in the background. He set the water beside Aragorn.

 

"Give the halfling a point for judge of character," he said.

 

Aragorn ignored Doren and gave Frodo's shoulders a small shake. "Listen to me, Frodo. It's wise to be cautious when you're in a strange land among strange folk, but you have two choices here as I can see it. You can trust me and allow me to help you, or I can leave you as you seem to wish and you can die alone. And you will die with no care."

Frodo swallowed and his jaw trembled. Aragorn felt ashamed by the harshness in his voice, but he had to take extreme measures. He had already been in this headquarters cottage thirty minutes and Frodo had not let him treat him.

"Now will you please trust that I am trying to help? If I meant to do you harm or to rob you, believe me, Doren would not have been able to stop me."

Doren snorted, but did not dare answer.

"Doren," Aragorn said in a stern voice. "Go downstairs and let those other hobbits free. Bring them up."

"Are you sure you can handle four hostile halflings fighting you off, Longshanks? Four might be able to take you."

But Doren took a shiny silver key ring and disappeared down the stairs. Aragorn allowed himself only a moment of worry. Doren had a point. If Frodo didn't trust him, then perhaps his friends wouldn't. How would he hold off three healthy hobbits, intent on defending their dearest friend?

The water with the athelas in it had come to a boil. Aragorn sat on the edge of the couch. Frodo kept his suspicious eyes on him as he lifted Frodo's injured hand. Aragorn flattened the small hand, trying his best not to cause the hobbit more pain.

"How do you know about Gandalf?" Frodo asked in an obvious effort to divert his mind from the pain. Aragorn was alarmed by the effort Frodo exerted to talk.

"I want you to stay quiet," Aragorn said.

"What are you doing to me?" Frodo asked, staring in alarm at the cloth Aragorn was dipping in the boiled athelas.

"I said--" Aragorn began, but at that moment Doren burst back into the room. His face was red and he breathed quickly.

"Strider, the halflings are gone! They slipped right out, right in front of our noses!" Doren shook his head, obviously embarrassed and infuriated. "The bars are intended to keep in men. Hobbits are usually kept in Staddle, not here. They must have just slipped between the bars! Some friends this fellow has. Left him high and dry."

 

Frodo gasped in terror when he heard Doren's fierce words. Each time he tried to take in new breath, his lungs constricted painfully. His hand still felt as though thousands of wasps stung it again and again. Black dots fluttered in front of his vision. Where had his friends gone? What had they been thinking? Frodo knew they hadn't abandoned him. It had probably been young Pippin who had discovered that the hobbits could slip between the bars. Sam, who had been unable to stand being separated from him, had no doubt talked the others into slipping out to get help. But they were no hardened criminals. They were soft hobbits from the Shire. They would be easily recaptured. Then they would be in worse trouble than before.

"Frodo, try to relax," Strider said in a low voice. "Just calm down."

"I...I can't...please...don't..." Frodo's stomach turned alarmingly and saliva filled his mouth. He was going to be miserably sick. He didn't have the strength to turn his head. Strider's face flinched with concern when Frodo started to gag, and he helped him lean over so that at least he wasn't sick on the chair or his blanket. The vomit splattered on the floor instead. Strider gently held Frodo by his cheeks and helped situate him so that he was lying on his back propped up by the chair pillows. Frodo's eyes fixed on the pot filled with boiling water that Strider had set on the fire. Strider had been interrupted from whatever he had been about to do with the boiling water. The cloth he had dipped in the water he had let fall on Frodo's chest. A sweet, soothing scent wafted from the cloth and for a moment, Frodo found breathing somewhat easier.

 

Doren put on his cloak. "I'm going to find them. I'm sorry, halfling, about your friends, but nobody has ever escaped from my prison and it isn't to be borne!"

"Please don't hurt them!" Frodo gasped out. Strider released Frodo's shoulders and stood. This frightening stranger seemed to be fighting for him. He did not know why. He could not really know whether he was a friend of Gandalf's. He could not really know anything. He did know the situation had to be gotten under control. His friends were way over their heads in trouble. Tears sprung to Frodo's eyes, imagining his friends clapped in chains and condemned to ten years in a Bree prison.

"I won't hurt them, little one," Doren said with a thin smile. Frodo could not know what to make of this man, who seemed soft-hearted one moment and unyielding the next. For the first time he was relieved by the ranger's presence.

Strider stood and blocked Doren's exit. "Hold on."

Frodo's lungs ached and his eyes burned. He was barely able to maintain consciousness. The scene before him wavered like a blurring mirage. He leaned back. How could he have ever taken the simple act of breathing for granted?

He flinched when Doren shouted. "Move out of my way, ranger!" He pulled out his thick sword. "I've tried to be kind to your little friends, and I would have let them out nice and easy. I tried to be kind to this sick halfling. I could have thrown him in jail, but I'm a human being, you understand, and he seems like a nice enough fellow. But this has gone too far. Three prisoners, whom I was not planning to hold for more than a night, have slipped out right in front of my eyes. They were gatebreaking, understand--gatebreaking!"

Frodo's heart thudded through the feverish buzzing in his ears. He could not imagine what was going to happen to his dear friends if they were caught! None of them had known anything about Big People before leaving the Shire. From Frodo's few encounters so far, he could deduct that the best way to describe men was unyielding. They had so far been intolerant of the antics of the young hobbits. In the Shire, if the hobbits had slipped out of prison, the mayor would have personally visited the young hobbits' homes, smoked a pipe with their father, downed a few ales, and an appropriate solution would have been arranged. The young hobbits would have been bound to do some sort of labor for the village. But Frodo had no way of knowing how the men of Bree with their fierce tongues and easy violence reacted to such a breech of their law.

"Bring them back here," Strider said, unfazed by Doren's sword. Frodo shivered. There was so much raw power in the ranger. He did not need to draw his sword or shout to command respect and obedience--and even fear. "I need to talk to them before you do anything to them."

Doren shook his head. "I do not intend to bring them back here. I will take them to Staddle where the hobbit prison is, and let them deal with their own kind."

Frodo's heart sank. Even though his young friends would be among hobbits and not under the ruthless care of men, Frodo would not see them soon. He cursed the illness that weakened and shamed him into helplessness. He could not imagine what he would do without his friends. What if they were held indefinitely? Though surely hobbits--though they were not Shire hobbits--would be more reasonable than men. They may be able to be talked out of putting the hobbits to a long jail sentence. Especially with Strider fighting for him.

"Doren!" Strider said sharply, at last unsheathing his sword. His gray eyes glinted. Frodo shrank back against his chair. Was he about to witness what he had only heard rumors of? In the Shire it was often said that the Big Folk often fought to the death over the smallest matters.

Strider had thrust his sword upward so quickly that Doren had no time to react. Doren's sword clattered to the floor. The tip of Strider's sword grazed Doren's neck, drawing a small trickle of blood.

"I do not speak idly. You will bring the hobbits back here unharmed. Frodo is on a journey that is of utmost importance to many among my circle of friends. Therefore, it is my priority to make sure he recovers. There has already been enough delay in getting treatment started. He needs his friends with him."

Doren laughed cynically. "Then why did they abandon him?"

"You know nothing of the nature of hobbits, do you?" Strider murmured. "No, you wouldn't, even here in Bree where you are fortunate to live near them. But I do know this much. If those hobbits are not brought back here unharmed, I will find you when you are least expecting and you will find that this sword can cut deeper than a small graze. Do you understand?"

Frodo watched Strider in awe. He was now as grim and frightening as the shadowy men at the gate who had bullied them.

"Let me out," Dorren said, his voice nearly a growl. Strider let his sword drop, and Dorren pushed out the door.

Strider didn't say anything to Frodo right away. He looked around the room until he found a large basin.

"I will be right back, Frodo," he finally said. I will fill this basin with water." He left Frodo in empty silence. Frodo closed his eyes, and it seemed like only a moment later, Strider was kneeling beside him.

Frodo mustered up his courage and spoke. "I heard what you said to him," he whispered. His chest moved up and down in a painful effort to get in enough air. "I...I'm sorry. I don't understand why you care so much about what happens to us."

Strider smiled, the grim light in his eyes softening until he looked kind. "Frodo, I'm going to take you out from under your blanket and put you in a basin filled with cool water. It will help to bring down your fever. And as for why I would take such an interest in you, as I told you before, I am a dear friend of Gandalf's. And of Bilbo."

"Bilbo!" Frodo said, grasping Strider's hand with his good hand. His eyes filled with sudden tears of homesickness. That this man knew Bilbo made his throat fill with memories of Bilbo smoking his pipe, Bilbo cooking bacon and eggs, Bilbo reading elvish to him in the cool evening light. The tears left his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. "Have you seen him?"

Strider's expression turned to pity. He wiped Frodo's tears with the small cloth that had fallen on Frodo's chest earlier.

"Before I left Rivendell, he and I spent some time together on his book. I helped with some of the poetry."

"So is he in Rivendell?" Frodo asked before being overcome by a coughing fit. The sound was deep and rattled. His hand flared with intense agony, and he cried out.

Strider helped Frodo bend forward so that he could breathe easier. "Easy, Frodo, easy. Enough talk. I will wash your hand with athelas first. It is a healing herb that will lessen your pain."

"Strider?" Frodo asked in a pained whisper. The coughing had made his entire chest throb. Strider turned from where he was dipping the cloth into fresh boiling athelas water.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry I...I'm sorry I hurt you earlier."

Strider smiled again. "You didn't hurt me, Frodo. I'm just happy that you are willing to trust me now."

 

Aragorn lifted Frodo from the chair. Despite the roaring warmth from the fireplace, the hobbit shivered in his arms. Aragorn unwrapped him from the blanket. The hobbit's pale skin burned so hot that Aragorn could not believe blisters had not formed. Aragorn kept one arm firmly behind Frodo's back and the other on Frodo's narrow chest as he slowly lowered him into the basin. Frodo shuddered and gasped. His wide blue eyes stared at the ceiling, as if he sought strength there. Aragorn moved his hand up to Frodo's neck to feel his pulse. He had to be careful. The water was cold, and he had concerns about straining Frodo's heart. Frodo's pulse had sped, but as his body adjusted to the cool water, it quickly stabilized. Aragorn let out a breath of relief.

Frodo shuddered so violently that Aragorn found it difficult to keep a firm grip on his slippery skin.

"Hold on, Frodo," he said. "I'll get you out in just a moment."

"Feels...good," Frodo gasped. "...don't...know...why...I'm sh-shaking so hard!"

"It's the chills," Aragorn said. "Even when you think you're burning up, you can't control the shaking."

He wiped the athelas-soaked cloth that he had used to clean the hand wound over Frodo's forehead. Frodo wheezed. He doubled over, coughing so violently and painfully that Aragorn lifted him out of the basin. He lay him back on the chair, wrapping him tightly in the blankets. Frodo held his chest, trying desperately to get in enough breath. He looked beseechingly at Aragorn, and the open trust in his eyes nearly moved Aragorn to tears.

Aragorn's heart sank as he listened to Frodo breathe. He had treated plenty of humans with pneumonia. He knew that very few survived if the fever didn't come down at a certain stage of the illness. Frodo was fast approaching that critical stage, and he only appeared to be getting worse. And Frodo's situation was even more grave. He was also battling the infection in his hand. Hobbits were resilient. They survived where most men would not. Aragorn had to count on that.

He looked at Frodo's glazed eyes in dismay.

"Frodo," Aragorn said softly, rubbing his callused hands over Frodo's uninjured hand, as if by doing so he could rub life back into the hobbit. "Right before I left Rivendell, Bilbo and I wrote a long poem about Beren and Luthien. He said you adored that story."

"Yes," Frodo murmured. He tried to smile and suppressed a cough, letting out a soft whimper. "Bilbo--where is he?"

"In Rivendell, waiting for you." Aragorn's heart sank again. He remembered telling Frodo that just a few hours earlier. Frodo should have remembered such an important detail. "That is why you must work very hard to get well."

"I will try," Frodo said. His lips were white and cracked. He looked at Aragorn with glassy trust before slowly letting his eyes shut. Aragorn hoped he could sleep. He could not bear for the hobbit to suffer.

During the next hour, he sat beside the chair, watching Frodo for changes in his condition. Periodically he dipped the athelas cloth in the cool water and rubbed it over Frodo's hot skin, dismayed by how quickly the cloth warmed after contact with Frodo's skin.

Frodo moaned and shook his head from side to side. "No, no. We must get off the road."

"Shhh, Frodo," Aragorn said softly, cupping his hand over his hot forehead. The dreams of those with high fevers were never pleasant. Frodo's chest struggled to rise with each breath. So much hinged on this small hobbit whose life hung on a thin thread. Aragorn felt helpless to do more to ease him.

"You can't have it!" Frodo's eyes flew open and he cried out in a sudden shrill voice. "You shall not have the Ring!"

Aragorn's blood froze. In Frodo's delirium, he might blurt more out about the Ring--in front of anyone. Aragorn looked around. He and Frodo were alone in the headquarters cottage. But what would he do when Doren returned--or any of the men who occasionally worked there? The Enemy was near. Black horses and their riders had been through Bree already and would return if they caught a hint that Frodo was here. Aragorn could defend Frodo against an attack of local Breelanders, but he did not have the same confidence about the servants of the Enemy.

"No, no, the Ring is mine!" Frodo's voice was guttural and unlike his usual soft tone. It chilled Aragorn's heart. He set water to boil. Perhaps if he got Frodo to lean over a bowl of steaming water, his chest would loosen somewhat--and the delirium would ease.

***

Pippin followed Merry and Sam down the dark street, his heart beating against his chest. He looked behind him several times, fully expecting to be pursued. He could not believe they had escaped jail. It had been surprisingly easy. He flushed in a combination of deep terror and a boyish thrill at the idea that they could be caught again. This time, he doubted the burly man behind the counter at headquarters would be so kind. Pippin only hoped he wouldn't take out his anger on Frodo.

Dear Frodo, who was lying ill and alone, at the mercy of the jail keeper. Pippin regretted pointing out to the others that their bodies were small enough to fit through the slats of the jail. They may have just done Frodo more harm than good by trying to escape.

Merry spoke in a confident voice. "Gandalf was supposed to be waiting for us at the inn. All we do is find him and everything will work out. Gandalf'll straighten this out. He'll be able to help poor Frodo."

"Will Frodo be all right?" Pippin asked, close to tears. His sweet older cousin had looked so deathly ill when they had left him by the fire.

"We have to trust that the man isn't going to hurt him," Merry said. "He was kind enough not to put him in jail downstairs."

"I should never've left him," Sam said miserably. "If he takes Frodo away, if he harms him, I won't never forgive myself."

"We just have to find the inn," Merry said.

Groups of men walked past, and some gave the hobbits curious glances. Some chuckled among themselves.

"I don't like this, no I don't," Sam said after one of the men had ruffled his hair walking past. "I want to go back for Mr. Frodo."

"If we go back, we'll be in worse trouble," Merry said. "We broke out of jail, you know. These men take those things very seriously."

"What will happen to us?" Pippin asked, his eyes wide. Then he silently berated himself. Frodo was ill--possibly dying. And all Pippin could think about was whether he would get into trouble?

"I don't trust any of these Big Folk as far as I can throw them," Sam said, shaking his head. "I thought there was supposed to be local hobbits here, but I haven't seen any so far."

"It's very late at night," Merry said. "They're probably all at home."

At last they came to the inn. Pippin let out a shuddering breath of relief. The hobbits straightened their shoulders and pushed through the door. Raucous laughter and the pungent odor of spilled beer greeted the hobbits. Some men cast hostile stares in their direction. Pippin stood as tall as he could. It did no good. He still felt impossibly small next to the counter that reached above his head.

"Yes, little masters?" A fat but kindly looking man peered over the counter at them. "We don't often get a party of hobbits. This is a pleasant surprise. I'm Butterbur, and I welcome you."

Pippin smiled tentatively at the man. He was first kindly person he had met in Bree.

"We're looking for Gandalf the Gray," Merry said. "Has he arrived?"

"You're from the Shire," Butterbur said in surprise when he heard Merry's voice. "Even more of a treat! Come in, come in!"

"Oh, we really need to find Gandalf," Merry said. "It's a bit of an emergency. Our friend is very sick."

"Oh, don't fret, little one. I haven't seen Gandalf in a good six months, but he is probably on his way. I know he loves his dear hobbit friends, and he will be here soon--especially if he said he'd meet you. Why don't you come in and relax, have an ale."

"No, I'm sorry," Merry said miserably. Pippin's chin quivered. If Gandalf was not here, then they were in serious trouble. They would never abandon Frodo, but when they went back, they would be imprisoned again--possibly for the rest of their lives. Pippin's throat filled. He could not imagine living his entire life in prison. He had not even had a chance to fully grow up, to get married, to have children. He would never see his family again.

"Don't be frightened, Pippin," Merry said softly as they walked out of the inn. "We'll just go back and explain. If we're honest about it, they won't be too harsh on us."

"We shouldn't have sneaked off," Sam said. "We left Mr. Frodo all alone there. He must be so frightened."

"No, no," Merry said. "Frodo is very brave."

"Yes," Pippin said, swallowing his own tears. "Frodo is brave." He wanted to be just as brave.

The hobbits made their way across the street.

Three men stepped out from a dark alley and surrounded them. Pippin's heart yammered inside him. They had been caught at last--even before they could explain. His hands felt cold. He would be brave. Like Frodo.

"It's our lucky night," a gruff voice said. "It's the little halflings who attacked us at the gate."

"Oh, look at them standing so tall. They're so brave," the second man mocked.

"Stand aside!" Merry cried. "Let us be. Or you shall be sorry."

"Oh, my!" the first man said. "We better run, men. These halflings might hurt us."

"Where's your fourth companion?" the third sneered. "Did he die already? He was not looking too well, I have to say."

Pippin suppressed a sob at the idea of Frodo dying. He backed up. If he could just slip past the large man on his left side, he could run quickly back across the street to the inn. He was certain that Butterbur would help. He had almost backed up far enough to make a run for it--when a strong arm twisted around his chest and held him tight.

"Oh no you don't," a rough voice said in his ear. "You little fellas aren't going anywhere."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Aragorn wrung out his cloth after dipping it in the athelas water. He wiped it over Frodo's burning face. Frodo had no idea where he was. He looked around the cottage in wild terror, but he seemed to be in the middle of a dream. His lips were cracked, and each breath seemed to take momentous effort. He surely couldn't survive much more.

"Bilbo, I finished my lessons," Frodo said. "May I go out now?"

He thrashed from side to side. He tried to sit up, his eyes glassy with pain, but Aragorn gently pushed him back. He adjusted Frodo's position on the chair so that he could breathe easier.

"No…no…Gandalf gave it to my keeping…" Frodo shrank from Aragorn.

"Frodo, you are safe here." Aragorn hoped that his voice penetrated some of the shadows that pressed in on Frodo. What a curse, that the Ring worked its evil more intensely while its bearer was so ill.

"That…feels good," Frodo said. His eyes seemed to focus on Aragorn for a moment. He managed a shadow of a smile. "They were close. Where's Sam?"

"You are safe," Aragorn repeated. "I will not allow any harm to come to you." He ignored Frodo's question about his friend. If Frodo had forgotten what had happened, Aragorn didn't want to upset him about it again.

He again sponged Frodo's forehead and cheeks. Frodo shivered under the cool water. Aragorn moved on to wipe down Frodo's chest. The skin was still impossibly hot. "In a bit, I want you to sip some broth for me. I would wager you have nothing of substance in your stomach right now. This isn't going to taste good, but it's all I have."

He examined the infected hand. The swelling had gone down somewhat. The red streaks had retracted. Aragorn still needed to keep a careful eye on it. He marveled that something so simple as a cut could lead to such deadly illness.

Frodo dozed as Aragorn boiled water for the broth. Sometimes he cried out, and Aragorn tensed, ready to cover his mouth if need be. If Frodo blurted more about the Ring, he wanted to be prepared.

Voices and heavy stomping sounded outside the door. Frodo twisted his head to see where the noise was coming from. His unfocused eyes glazed with terror. "They're here," he gasped. "They're coming for it! Strider!"

He no longer seemed aware of his surroundings. Aragorn quickly secured the athelas-soaked cloth over Frodo's mouth, tying it behind his head. He held Frodo down, securing one hand over his chest and the other over his shoulder. Frodo thrashed against his hold, moaning. Aragorn could feel the terrified pattering of Frodo's heart.

The door burst open. Aragorn turned, his sword drawn.

The lawmen—the same who had arrested the hobbits at the gate--held their hands out in surrender.

"Easy, ranger! We've brought the clothes for the hobbit prisoners," the first said.

Aragorn lowered his sword. The clothing was in a tight bundle, protected from the rain by one of the men's cloaks. The man holding the clothing paused when he noticed the gag over Frodo's mouth. "Why have you gagged the halfling? Has he become a nuisance?"

"He is delirious with fever," Aragorn said. "He has bit me several times. I cannot treat him unless he is restrained."

Frodo moaned and twisted his head from side to side as if in pain. It wrenched Aragorn's heart, but he could not risk what Frodo might say in front of these men. Aragorn hoped not to pay too dearly for the act with the loss of Frodo's trust.

"If the halfling has become difficult to handle, you should put him in one of the cells."

"That I will not do," Aragorn said in a cold voice. "Now that you are here, I need some supplies. I need clean clothes, clean bandages, and a sharp knife."

"What do you need a knife for?" the man asked suspiciously.

"I need it for the hobbit's infected hand."

The man with the hobbit clothes dropped the pile on the floor near Frodo. He bent too close to Frodo, and Frodo in his delirious terror kicked him with surprising force. The man cursed and whirled around in a fury. He grabbed Frodo by the shoulders and shook him. Frodo gave a muffled cry.

"Sick or not, I will not—"

Aragorn shoved him away from Frodo and pinned him against the wall. "I have this situation under control. Thank you for the clothing. You and your friend can continue your patrols of the village. Doren will be back shortly."

"It is rough days indeed in Bree when rangers command what is and isn't to be in our very own village." The man gasped, holding his neck.

"It is rough days indeed when four hobbits cannot travel in what was once a hospitable village."

The man gave Aragorn a final dark look and he and his companion left the cottage.

Aragorn quickly untied Frodo's gag and released it from his mouth. He rubbed Frodo's jaw, hoping to ease the ache from his struggle. "I am so sorry, Frodo."

"Why…why did you do that?" Frodo's blue eyes looked dull, as if he didn't much care whether Aragorn answered his question. Aragorn sponged Frodo again. His breathing did not seem nearly as labored. The athelas gag ironically seemed to have done some good. For proper healing, Frodo really needed to be in a healing house, with a clean bed and no chilly draft.

"I suppose it doesn't matter if they get it," Frodo said in a dull voice that brought goose bumps to Aragorn's arms. "I'm not going to make it. I wish Gandalf could have saved it."

Aragorn wiped the sponge over Frodo's body again. Frodo started to shiver uncontrollably. He stared up at the ceiling in a desperate glaze. "Sam…Where's Sam? Did they kill him yet? They took him away at the gate."

Aragorn looked at Frodo in compassion, wondering where he thought he was. Had the shadows pressed so close that he thought himself in Mordor? Aragorn shuddered. He hoped not. Anywhere but there.

***

Pippin was paralyzed. The man held him so tightly that his arms had numbed. Pippin could not see him, but he could smell ale and sweat. A second man, whom he recognized as one of the bullies from the shadowy gate, had gripped Merry by the forearm. Sam pummeled his fists at the man who held Merry, but the third man stepped forward and struck Sam across the face. Sam fell senseless to the ground.

"Sam!" Pippin cried. The man had hit him so hard. What kind of brutes were they? He knew hobbits lived in the Bree area. Were all men such ruffians? How did the hobbits of Bree manage? He wished they had never left the Shire.

"Okay, you little rats," the first man said. "Here's the deal. We've thought of a use for you."

"'Tis the only thing they're useful for," his friend said with a cruel chuckle.

Merry squirmed in his grip. "Let us go!"

"Shut up!" The man slapped Merry's head. Merry met Pippin's eyes. Pippin could tell what he was thinking. He felt guilt that his little cousin had to face such terror and that he could do nothing to save them. Leave it to Merry to be brave and selfless. Pippin tried to smile at him, to let him know it was all right.

Pippin's thoughts went back to Frodo. He was the one who needed them so badly. They had to get out of this situation because Frodo was ill and alone with the man who had put them in jail. He strained his brain. What would Roffo do? Roffo was a made-up character that Bilbo had used to entertain Frodo's younger cousins as they had been growing up. Roffo was a brave hobbit who was always going on adventures. He got into all kinds of fixes. One time he had been taken prisoner by orcs, another time, he had been trapped by men who wanted to have a hobbit slave. What had Roffo done to get out of that one? Pippin tried to think back to the soothing sound of Bilbo's voice. Of course the Roffo adventures were only stories, but some were based in truth. Bilbo had actual experience in adventures. He had gotten himself and his dwarf friends out of many fixes.

Pippin took a breath. The grip on his arms was so painful it found it difficult not to cry out. But he wouldn't. He was brave. And he had remembered something. Men, even those who lived in Bree near hobbits, did not know much about hobbits. He had heard that they often had a suspicious fear that hobbits were related to fairy folk, capable of magic. What if they could give the men the impression that something bad would happen to them if they hurt the three hobbits? Pippin's heart began to thud loudly.

"If you don't let us go, we shall change you into worms!" He knew it sounded silly, but it was the only thing he could think of.

"What did you say, halfling?" The man that gripped him spun him around to face him and grabbed him by the collar. He knelt so that their faces were only inches apart. Pippin winced at the foul smell from his breath. He looked into that hardened face, nicked with scars, and lost his nerve.

"Nothing," he said, barely able to breathe. The man shook him.

"Pippin," Merry said in warning. "Please, sir, he doesn't mean what he says. He's very young! Don't hurt him!"

"No, I heard some nonsense come out of this little rat's mouth and I want to hear what he has to say! Now speak!"

"I said," Pippin said in a small squeak, gathering his courage again. "If you don't let us go, we'll change you into worms. We can, you know."

The men roared with laughter. Pippin's ears turned red. He had failed. His plan had been fragile, and these men were not as ignorant about hobbits as he had hoped. Pippin met Merry's eyes again. Merry looked frightened, but Pippin also caught a glimmer of pride. Pippin managed a quick smile before he was thrown to the ground and a heavy foot slammed on his back.

"Pippin!" Merry cried out in terror.

"Hey! Hey!" A deep and familiar voice shouted. Pippin heard the man with his boot on him curse loudly. The heavy foot came off his back.

"Fun's over. Let's get the hell out of here," the man who had gripped Merry said. He spit on the ground before flinging Merry against the wall of the building and running down the alley. Pippin heard three sets of boots flee down he alley. Merry crawled to Pippin and helped him to a sitting position.

"Are you all right?" Merry whispered. Pippin nodded. "What about Sam?"

Merry touched Sam's cheek, and he groaned. Pippin's whole body sagged in relief.

"There will be a later reckoning for you!" The man with the stern voice shouted to the three men running down the alley. Pippin was filled with new dismay as he recognized their savior as Doren.

"On your feet," Doren said harshly. "Are you hurt?"

Pippin could not find the strength to stand up. "I…I don't think so."

"Our friend is hurt," Merry said, bending over Sam. "He cannot walk."

"We're very sorry we ran away," Pippin said, tears welling in his eyes. He was ashamed by his fear in front of this stern man. He must think of hobbits as silly children who couldn't control their emotions or stay out of trouble.

"You halflings are much more trouble than you're worth," Doren said, bending down to examine Sam. Sam's nose trickled with blood, but he appeared to be coming to. Doren studied Sam's head, making sure there were no other injuries.

"We wanted to help Frodo," Pippin said, clutching himself. He could not stop the tears from flowing. "He's so sick. Please don't lock us up again. We'll do anything. We just want to see Frodo, to make sure he's all right. He is all right, isn't he?"

Doren did not have a bad heart; Pippin could see that in the concern he showed Sam. He turned to Pippin. He looked unyielding, but his voice was soft. "Don't weep, little one. I am taking you back to see Frodo. He's under the care of a ranger. I do not like him and do not trust him myself, but he seems to know and care for your friend. As for your trouble, you thoroughly deserve to be locked up for the next ten years, but I'm not going to do it. All of you halflings must have learned a sore lesson about leaving home."

Pippin nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Yes, I just wish I could go home. But I suppose that's up to Frodo. Thank you, sir. Thank you!"

Merry put his arm around him and squeezed. "You were so brave, cousin. I was proud of you."

"I can't believe what I did," Pippin said with a smile. He laughed.

"If you don't let us go, we shall turn you into worms," Merry imitated, laughing. "For a moment, I almost thought it would work! I can't wait to tell Sam!"

 

Aragorn sighed, the weight of his decision pressing down on his shoulders. He was going to have to leave Frodo alone. Not for long, but he had to do it. Even though the fever seemed to have gone down slightly, the hobbit's infection would not go away until the wound was lanced. He did not trust the cleanliness of his own knife, which though cleaned, had recently been used to gut a rabbit he had slain for a meal in the wild. He would take no chances. After all, an unclean knife had caused the original wound on Frodo's hand.

He planned to go to the Prancing Pony and borrow a clean knife from Barliman. It should not take longer than twenty minutes. He glanced down at Frodo. Though he lay still, his narrow chest struggled to move up and down and his breaths came out in weak rasps. Even if he was overcome by a delirious craving to leave the cottage, he was too weak to get far in his state. For a moment Aragorn considered taking Frodo with him, tucking him under his cloak, but he dismissed it right away. Aragorn could not take the gravely ill hobbit into the rainy night – not when the Enemy was so close.

"Frodo." Aragorn placed both his hands on Frodo's cheeks, willing the hobbit's eyes to focus on him. "I need to leave you for a short time." Frodo stared in a weary daze at the ceiling, giving no indication that he had heard. Aragorn's heart sank with new dread. He had heard of people who suffered such high fevers that their minds became unhinged.

He had to get the knife.

He kissed Frodo on his hot brow before pulling on his cloak and striding out into the rain. Frodo should be safe for twenty short minutes. He shivered when a brutal gust of cold wind ripped his cloak in every which way. He had made the right decision in not taking Frodo into this weather.

He had reached the alley that led to the street on which the Prancing Pony was located. He was making good time. Only five minutes or so had passed since he had left Frodo alone.

"Hey…Longshanks!"

Aragorn turned toward the harsh voice, whipping his sword out of its sheath in less than a second. Before he could make out who had called to him, a shadow flickered to his right and something smashed into his head.

"Frodo…" he groaned as his world sank into darkness.

 

***

Frodo lay in a dark haze. He had not heard Strider's voice in ever so long, but it took too much effort to open his sticky eyes. Everything burned. His breathing had eased somewhat, for which he was grateful. If he lived through this, he would never again take breathing for granted. He would appreciate every day, no matter how dark. He licked his lips, but the dry cracks hurt his tongue.

"Strider," he croaked, but there was no answer.

He had a vague memory of a snippet of a dream in which Aragorn had told him he would be gone for awhile. He had probably left him. He was a Ranger with many more important tasks than concerning himself with a sick hobbit.

He was so thirsty. Water would surely ease the rigid cracks on his lips.

Frodo flung the blanket off of him, and new chills quaked his frame. Where was everyone? Even Doren the jail keeper seemed to have disappeared. He had a vaguely unpleasant memory that had to do with Merry, Pippin, and Sam. He had dreamed that Doren was furious with them.

The fire had nearly burned out, but he spied a jug of water in the corner beside the fireplace. He forced himself to a sitting position, though his legs felt like separate and hindering entities. They barely moved at his command. Once off the chair, he collapsed to his knees. The water jug was so close, yet he just couldn't reach it. He crawled toward it on his forearms, tears filling his eyes. He must be dreadfully sick if he couldn't crawl a few feet to reach a simple jug of water. The room dimmed as his breath grew more and more difficult. He clutched the floor for balance, continuing to crawl, gasping for breath until his lungs throbbed. When he arrived within reaching distance of the jug, his fingers refused to uncurl. Finally he grasped the neck of the jug, but he was only able to lift it a small distance off the ground before it slipped out of his clumsy hands and spilled all over the floor.

Frodo wept in pain and frustration, watching the water gush in every direction, soaking into the dirty floor. All this effort had been for nothing, and now he had no strength to crawl back to the chair. He tried several times to lift himself up before giving up. He curled up on the wet floor, licking the water on the wooden floor. It was dirty, but the liquid felt luxurious on his tongue. He lapped it up until there was nothing but sodden dirt on his tongue. He shook with violent chills, and every shake jarred his aching body. His shirt was wet, but the chair and blanket was miles away.

"Strider…" he called out pitifully, but nobody answered. Frodo slipped into a hazy sleep.

The door flew open, and Frodo's eyes flew open. Doren, followed by three bedraggled hobbits, entered. Frodo's throat filled with joy, though he could not move or speak.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam cried out in dismay. A nasty bruise marred his round face. Doren looked grim as he approached, and Frodo wondered if the Man had beaten the hobbits when he found them. He shrank from him, though he could barely move.

"Don't worry, Mr. Frodo," Sam said. "Doren's a good man. He wants to help."

"He hit you…" Frodo whispered, locking his fingers behind Sam's neck.

"Where is the Ranger?" Doren broke in, kneeling beside Frodo and Sam.

Frodo shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He could not allow the man to put his friends back in jail. Doren would have to rip Sam from his clinging arms. His voice came out in a trembling whisper. "He said…he left for…it was a long time…I don't know where he is…said he'd be back…" He looked at Doren in pleading. "Don't take Sam…please don't…"

"We must get him dry!" Merry said in dismay. "Who knows how long he's been lying on the floor in his wet clothes. Sam, help me lift him."

"Where were you?"

"We met up again with the men from the gate," Merry said. "It seemed they were not content with pushing us around the first time."

"Oh, no," Frodo groaned, his bleary eyes darting from side to side. "It seems we are plagued by enemies anywhere we go in this village."

"You certainly seem to bring trouble wherever you go," Doren said with a sigh. He took Frodo from Sam and Merry, who were struggling to lift him back on the chair, and tucked the blankets around him. "Strange folk you are." He put his hand on Frodo's brow.

"Please," Frodo said. "Do not lock up my friends."

"I will not," Doren said. "Stop your worrying, halfling. Much as your friends truly deserve to be locked up, breaking out of my jail and all, I've got a heart and I see no sense in it, given the circumstances."

"Thank you," Frodo said, going limp with relief. But where was Strider? He had been gone for far too long. He had promised to come right back.

"It seems your ranger friend has abandoned you so I will send for a real healer." Doren smiled softly. "Though you do look a sight better than you did earlier."

"He wouldn't have left me," Frodo said, his brow creased with worry. "Something has happened."

Doren raised his brows. "To him? I'd bet all my coins against it." He patted Frodo's shoulder. "Let me send for that healer."

The other hobbits gathered around Frodo.

"Don't jostle him," Sam said, elbowing Pippin out of the way. "He's too sick. Let him breathe."

"I was so worried," Frodo said. "What were you thinking, breaking out of jail like that?"

"Well, we're together now, and I reckon it turned out for the better," Sam said.

Frodo felt breathing easier, tucked under the warmth of the blankets again, but his mind flickered with worry. Strider should have returned. Frodo could not help an ominous pit in his stomach, but he would not burden his friends. He did not trust them not to endanger themselves by slipping out into the streets of Bree again in an attempt to find Strider.

 

The healer that Doren had sent for bustled into the cottage, carrying only a small pack. He tracked mud onto the cottage floor, and he flung off his rain-soaked cloak. He was not quite elderly, but the gray streaks in his hair showed his advancing age. He had a beard and large, stubby fingers.

"An ill hobbit, you say?"

"Inside," Doren pointed at Frodo. Merry and Pippin were seated on the floor in front of the fire, and Sam had fallen into a light sleep, his head cradled against Frodo's hip.

"What ails him?"

"His hand is infected and he's suffering from his lungs."

The healer *tsked*. "That does not bode well."

Doren shook his head in disapproval. "We had one of them Rangers in here, but he seems to have left for good. Didn't do much for the hobbit, as far as I can see, but cause him more fear."

"Oh, my." The healer shook his head in disapproval. "Curse those Rangers out of the wild! Why can't they let us to our own business?"

"Aye, there is much evil in this village. Earlier this eve," Doren said. "I arrested these halflings for gate-breaking, though now it seems they had a good reason. If I ever get my hands on the bullies that've taken over the gate, you can bet they'll pay."

The healer nodded and put his hand on Frodo's brow. He turned to the other hobbits. "Do you know what caused the infection?"

"It was a knife he used for cooking," Pippin said in a small voice. "He cut himself, and it just…" He looked down at Frodo in sudden dismay, as if it had just hit him just how ill his dear cousin was. "It kept getting worse."

"It sounds like you're out of the Shire from your talk," the healer said gently.

Pippin nodded and started to say more, but stopped when Frodo groaned.

Frodo cringed at the freedom of Pippin's tongue. He knew his young cousin could not help it. He was frightened and so much had happened. But Frodo might as well forget about his original plan to escape in secret. Now all of Bree would know that four Shire hobbits were staying in the jailer's cottage, and that one of them was very ill. Gandalf had never arrived, and now Strider the Ranger was gone. Frodo let out a desperate sigh. He could not imagine how they would ever make it to Rivendell alone.

"All right, young halfling," the healer said to him in a kindly voice. He kept his dry palm over Frodo's brow, and it felt cool and soothing. "Yes, you've got a bit of a fever. Yes, quite a bit of a fever still. What is your name?"

Frodo's heart leaped. He could not remember the alias that Gandalf had given him.

"Underhill. His name's Mr. Underhill," Pippin added hastily.

"I want him to answer," the healer said. "I want to make certain his senses are not addled by fever. Where are you from, Mr. Underhill?"

"The Shire," Frodo said, closing his eyes. He hoped the healer would not demand more information.

"When is your birthday?"

This was probably another piece of information that should not be revealed, but Frodo was too weary to fight it. "September 22."

"All right then." The healer seemed satisfied as he dug into his bag.

"May I have something to drink?" Frodo asked. Already it seemed like years had passed since his struggle across the room to reach the water jug earlier that evening. "I'm awfully thirsty."

The healer nodded at Pippin. "Fetch your friend a cup of water, please."

Pippin nodded, and Frodo watched through blurred vision as Doren directed Pippin where to go to find the water.

The healer looked toward the front door. "I wish to move him somewhere more comfortable, where there might be a real bed."

"It is raining," Doren said doubtfully. "It would not do him any good to get wet again."

"I know, which is why I cannot move him now. If he gets chilled again, I do not think I will be able to help him. Let me take a look at this wound in his hand." He lifted Frodo's hand and his frown deepened as he examined it. "Oh…See how swollen and red it is? This fever cannot go down until this is taken care of."

Doren shook his head. "That ranger, it seems, did more harm than good."

Frodo groaned. "No…no, I think." His mind was foggy, but he had the vague memory that Strider had been on his way to get a knife to do just as this healer suggested. "No…"

"Try not to speak now," the healer said sternly.

Pippin returned with the cup of water. The healer tilted Frodo's head up, ever so slightly. "Drink." Frodo looked into Pippin's eyes and felt a terrible pang of guilt. His young cousin looked petrified, but so far he had been so brave. Frodo had brought risk and ruin to his friends! As soon as he was well, he would demand that they go back to the Shire. Already he had put them at great risk, and they had not even had a direct encounter with the Enemy.

"Drink," Pippin said. "Please."

Frodo gulped the water down, unable to believe that his thirst was at last being satiated. The water was cold on his throat, a contrast to the burning everywhere else.

"Now, I need one of you hobbits to hold his arm down. I'm going to cut into his hand, and I have nothing to ease his pain. Doren, I'll need you to hold down his legs. He's likely to thrash real bad."

"Strider…" Frodo muttered. He had gone to fetch a knife, and though this healer was kind, he was not a friend of Gandalf's or Bilbo's. Strider would not have left him without good reason. Something had happened. "Strider…"

"Hush, cousin," Pippin said in a trembling voice. "We're going to make you better."

"Don't cry, Pip," Merry said. "Cousin Frodo's tough. Look at his eyes. He's fiercely angry, and if he were dying, he'd not have that look in his eyes."

The knife jabbed into Frodo's hand, and he yelped, bucking his legs up. His legs did not move, as Doren had them held firmly down.

"Let me tell you about the adventure we had this evening," Pippin said rapidly. More pain zigzagged through Frodo's hand, sending fire ripping upward.

"Tell me," he gasped.

Pippin's mouth moved, but the pain encompassed all, and Frodo could not comprehend him, not at all. He heard Merry's laughter and Sam's tsking, but it was meaningless. There was nothing but the fiery pain.

"Oh," Pippin stopped abruptly. "He's hurting dreadfully. Can't you do anything?"

The healer nodded. "I shall be finished soon. The infection is deep. If I do not get it now, I shan't have another chance."

"Pippin," Frodo managed, now that his cousin had stopped talking. "Pippin, listen to me."

"Hush, Frodo, it will soon be over."

"Strider is in trouble," Frodo whispered.

"In trouble?"

"He would not have left me."

Pippin shook his head. "It doesn't matter. You are being healed, cousin."

"It matters," Frodo whispered fiercely. "He is a friend. And a friend of Gandalf's."

Pippin looked away, meeting the eyes of the healer.

"He is delirious," the healer muttered, and Frodo's cheeks flared in rage. At least if he were delirious, he would not be feeling so much pain. His throat would not ache from a thirst that seemed never to be quenched.

 

***

Aragorn woke in the street, and he spit dirt from his mouth. He coughed weakly and tried to rise, but his head gave such a mean throb that it turned his stomach. What had – the sun was breaking in the East and his limbs were cold and drenched. He was likely to catch pneumonia –

His heart jolted. Frodo! He had left Frodo alone while he had gone to seek out a knife to lance the wound. He stumbled to his feet and stumbled in dizzy fear back in the direction of the jailer's cottage. Frodo had been alone, delirious! If he had come to any harm --

Aragorn reached for the weapons around his waist – and found nothing. He stopped and looked down. Everything was gone. He had been robbed! He, a Ranger of the wild, had been robbed in the streets of Bree by common ruffians! He let out a loud groan of self-disgust. Of course, his supply of athelas had been in a pouch there – and now it was gone.

Knife or no knife, he had to go back and check on Frodo. The hobbit was strong and amazingly resilient, and there was a good chance that he had survived. He tried not to think about the evil that could have passed while he lay unconscious in the street.

"No, I shall not think of it." Inside the jailer's cottage, all looked gray and dark. He pushed open the door. Everything was empty. Nobody was around. He looked around in wild concern, looking for any sign of a struggle.

"Frodo!" he called. He knew that sometimes patients in a delirious state might wander, looking for something desperately needed, like water. He saw that the fire in the hearth had died down to embers. It was as if the hobbits had never been here.

"Oh, Frodo," he whispered. He had promised Bilbo and Gandalf he would look after him, would get the Ring safely to Rivendell. He had turned out to be the most inadequate choice for this task. And where were Frodo's companions? And the jailer Doren? Aragorn looked around for a sign. He could see hobbit footprints on the dusty floor, but he could not determine how old they were. It was possible that the hobbits had returned and Doren had thrown them all into prison.

Doren was nowhere in sight, so Aragorn went down the damp wooden steps into the section where the jail cells were. He kept his cloak wrapped around him so that he moved in near invisibility. He crept through the shadows, peering into each cell, but there was no sign of any hobbits. He chuckled slightly to himself when he saw how far apart the bars were. No wonder the hobbits had been able to escape so easily! But if they weren't in jail, then where were they?

 

The door to the cottage opened abruptly and Doren stumbled inside. He did not see Aragorn right away. He shivered and put his cloak up on the hook. He startled and then froze in dismay when he saw Aragorn. After the initial shock, his face hardened. Aragorn stepped forward, his hood covering most of his face. He tried his best to conceal that he had no weapons.

"Where are the halflings?" Aragorn asked.

Doren's face turned red as he walked to his desk. "That is none of your affairs. The sick one is in good hands. At last."

Aragorn longed for his sword. Or at least a knife. Time was too short to deal with a stubborn jailer. This man was easily intimidated, so Aragorn's best course of action would be to act as though he did have plenty of weapons to draw. He strode forward until he stood right in front of Doren, looming over him, as Doren was considerably shorter.

"Tell me where they are."

"I'll not be bothered by ranger scum right now. You've frightened them halflings enough. Leave them alone and be gone." Doren trembled as he backed away.

Aragorn let out a cynical chuckle. "It is not I who threw them in prison. The sick halfling is a good friend and I need to know where he is. I could break your neck with my hands if I choose. What say you? Where are those halflings?"

Doren took another step backward into the wall, his face turning red. "I'll not be bullied by the likes of you."

Aragorn closed his eyes. He would get no more out of this man, and intimidating him was only wasting his time. "Very well then. I shall track them myself."

"The halflings are in good hands," Doren finished.

"I am glad to hear of it," Aragorn said, leaving the cottage. The tracks were easy to follow and he regretted the time spent trying to get the jailer to talk. To see all the hobbit tracks together with the boot tracks that could only belong to the healer was easy enough to follow in the soft mud.

Aragorn found that the tracks led him to the Prancing Pony. When Aragorn questioned old Butterbur, the innkeeper stalled, eyeing him with the usual suspicion, but he finally gave them the number of the room in which they were staying.

When Aragorn entered the room, the old healer grabbed a heavy lantern and wielded it at the Ranger. "Stay away!"

"Put that down, Thrushberry. You know who I am."

"What do you need with these hobbits? They've endured enough. Leave them be."

"Strider!" Frodo cried out in joy. He was at last tucked into a warm bed with plenty of blankets and pillows. "Leave him alone – he's our friend. Strider, where were you?"

Aragorn was pleased to see how much better Frodo looked. His eyes were bright, and sweat had soaked the curls around his face. At least the fever seemed to be breaking.

Aragorn knelt beside the bed and took Frodo's unhurt hand. "How do you feel?"

"Oh, much better. Mr. Thrushberry has taken wonderful care of me. And now we're out of that horrid." He shuddered. "That jailhouse."

"To think that he would even think of throwing respectable hobbits like us in jail," Pippin said.

"Perhaps I am respectable," Merry said. "But I don't know where you've gotten the idea that you are—"

"Quiet, both of you," Sam said, spreading his legs out with indignation. "Mr. Strider, where were you? Frodo worried himself into near a state!"

Aragorn let out a sigh. "I am ashamed to admit that I was robbed in the street by common criminals. I have no weapons now, no herbs to help your Frodo feel better. I was knocked unconscious."

"This village grows ever darker." The healer shook his head in disgust. "Decent folk can't walk about without getting into trouble. Hobbits won't come down no more from Staddle. And all because of those bullies that think they can run the village."

"Oh." Frodo looked concerned as he ran his hand along Aragorn's face. "Are you all right? You should have Mr. Thrushberry look at that bump on your head."

"I will be all right," Aragorn said with a smile. "The important thing is that you recover. We cannot stay here in Bree, I fear. The Enemy knows you are here."

"The Enemy." Mr. Thrushberry paled, and Aragorn looked at him through narrowing eyes, as if assessing whether the man could be trusted.

At last Aragorn spoke. "Evil has come to Bree as it has come to many parts of Middle earth. The night is darkening, and while Frodo stays here, he brings more evil here."

The healer looked at Frodo, shocked that such innocence could be the harbinger of more evil. "But…but how is this possible?"

"That part is not your concern and will hopefully never be. Leave us now, dear healer. You have done your good deed. The less you know, the better, should the Enemy seek you out."

The healer paled. He glanced again at his small patient and then back down at his hands. Then he groped through his pack. "I will leave you bandages. The dressing on his hand will have to be changed twice a day. The wound will need to be cleaned with clean water – not creek or river water. As urgent as your plight may be, he will not be able to travel unless he is carried wrapped in heavy cloaks or blankets, and even so, it will bear him great risk should the skies open again and he get soaked with rain. His lungs are very weak now, though the fever has nearly completely broken."

"It is the risk we must take," Aragorn said softly. "Far better that than he is attacked by the Enemy with their foul blades."

The healer paused, a question on his lips, but then he shook his head. He did not really wish to know what business the Enemy could possibly have with a gentle Shire hobbit.

"Go now in peace," Aragorn said to the healer.

"Good luck," the healer said. "You will need it."

The younger hobbits stood in silence until the healer left. Then Merry turned to Aragorn. "Do you really mean to carry Frodo through the wilderness in his state?"

"We must."

Sam frowned. "I don't like it. Not one bit. He needs rest. And a good many more days in a warm bed."

"Sam, would you rather your Frodo face the Enemy in his state, unarmed, too weak to fight?" Strider knew his voice sounded harsh, but these hobbits had to be made to understand.

Sam turned to the other hobbits. "How do we really know this Strider here is a friend—"

"Sam!" Frodo broke in.

But Sam continued. "He could be a spy, trying to get at –" He flushed and stopped abruptly, clearly embarrassed that he had nearly given Frodo's burden away.

"Don't you think that the Enemy would be more careful than that?" Pippin said. "If Strider here were a spy, he would seem fair, like one of the elves and then he'd suddenly turn on us in the night."

"Meaning I'm not fair?" Aragorn asked, raising his brows. He was glad to see that Frodo was grinning at him, his trust clear in his eyes.

"Well…" Pippin said, flushing. "I did not mean it that way, sir. It's only that—"

"Oh, hush, Pippin," Merry said. He turned to Aragorn. "I think what he means to say is that if you were the Enemy, you would have tricked us better."

"He is not the Enemy," Frodo said. "Of that I am certain. I would trust him with my life."

"And your life I would protect with mine," Strider said. "You and that which you bear is of utmost importance to me and all I hold dear." He sighed and looked at the hobbits, trying to assess what their strengths were. It was obvious that Sam could carry more than the others. Pippin was upbeat and had gumption and energy. Merry was a voice of reason. There was much hope in these hobbits, and Frodo had acted wisely in bringing them with him.

"What of Gandalf, Strider?" Frodo asked, his pale brow creased with worry. "Why do you suppose he did not meet us here in Bree?"

Aragorn sighed. He had been unwilling to face this unpleasantness. "It is bothersome to me. I think perhaps he was diverted by the Enemy and perhaps he is trying to find us in the wilderness as we speak now."

"Tomorrow morning," Strider said. "We shall leave on roads rarely traveled by Man or beast. I will ask Butterbur if there is any pony we can buy in this village, for we will need one to carry some supplies. I shall carry Frodo until he is well enough to walk himself, though that may not be until we reach Rivendell."

"What if we meet the Enemy in the wild?" Merry asked in a quiet voice. "What then? We have no skills to fight."

"It shall be no different than meeting the Enemy in this village," Strider said. "The advantage we shall have in the wild is that the Enemy will have to find us first. And with me as your guide, that shall not be easy. And we shall have fire. The Enemy does not love fire and will not likely attack if there is any around."

Merry nodded, and his face relaxed. "Then we shall have to do as you say. We should leave as soon as we can."

"And what about these ruffians?" Pippin asked. "The ones that bothered us at the gate and in the street and robbed you, Strider? What of them? Do you think they will follow us?"

"None are a match for me in the wild."

Frodo's eyes grew heavy, and he seemed to struggle to focus on anyone in the room.

Strider turned to him and placed his hand on the hobbit's sweaty brow. "You must sleep now, Frodo. You will need all your strength in the coming weeks. I wish you could spend your recovery in a soft bed, but alas, that shall need to wait until we reach the House of Elrond."

Long after the hobbits slept, Strider kept watch into the streets of Bree while the fire burned low in the hearth. These hobbits had great strength and determination, more so than he would have guessed when Gandalf had bid him look after a dear hobbit friend from the Shire who carried an evil burden. Aragorn's own knowledge of hobbits was limited, based only on watching them from afar while protecting the borders of the Shire.

"Somehow they represent all that is worth saving in Middle earth."

He watched Frodo's chest move up and down in shallow breaths. To what evil might this dear hobbit come to before the end, willingly carrying such evil? He had much darkness to endure, many cold nights ahead. Aragorn was blessed -- or cursed -- however he chose to view it, with the vision of the Numenoreans. He saw now with clarity that the hobbit's song would last the year and beyond, but there were heart-breaking pauses, places in which the gentle song nearly stopped.

"If by life or death I can protect you, I will," Aragorn whispered into the dark.

He was determined that the hobbit's song should last so that he could witness a new age in which darkness did not hold dominion.

 

END


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